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- Herausgeber: Michelle Love
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Her words hit my screen like a match to dry wood—one bold question, and I was hooked.
I’m the bad boy with the bankroll, older, sharper, and built for breaking rules—and wills.
She’s fresh, fierce, and clueless about the storm she’s walked into.
My ropes, my rules: I’ll take her to the edge, show her how power bends everything, even her.
She fights it, but her eyes don’t lie—she’s already mine. It’s a short-term deal, or it was supposed to be.
Now she’s got me questioning who’s really caught, because the deeper we go, the more I want her chained to me for good.
Keywords: Guaranteed HEA, no cliffhangers, happily ever after. billionaire, bad boy, office romance, steamy romance, contemporary romance, love books, love stories, new adult, alpha male, romance, action, adventure, steamy romance, small-town secrets, hot, alpha hero. free book, free novels, romantic novels, and sexually romantic books.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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Dirty Little Virgin
Billionaire Romance (A Submissives’ Secrets Novel 1)
Michelle Love
©Copyright2025byMichelleLove- All rights Reserved
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Contents
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Blurb
Her words hit my screen like a match to dry wood—one bold question, and I was hooked.
I’m the bad boy with the bankroll, older, sharper, and built for breaking rules—and wills.
She’s fresh, fierce, and clueless about the storm she’s walked into.
My ropes, my rules: I’ll take her to the edge, show her how power bends everything, even her.
She fights it, but her eyes don’t lie—she’s already mine. It’s a short-term deal, or it was supposed to be.
Now she’s got me questioning who’s really caught, because the deeper we go, the more I want her chained to me for good.
Jade
Romance has been in my blood since I was only a girl of sixteen. An avid reader of anything in the romance genre, I’m especially keen on the darker side of the romantic spectrum, where pain and pleasure meet in an ebbing and flowing stream of calm and frantic nuances. A place where sin and evil meet with good and innocence, leaving their residue on each.
My curiosities have come to the surface, and they won’t allow me to shove them down any longer. I sit at my computer, searching the vast Internet to find someone who will help me. I need help to understand the reality that is BDSM, something that won’t leave my mind.
The books I’ve read are great, enjoyable, and pleasing. But I think they’re purely fictional, with little to do with the reality of that lifestyle. And I want to know more about it all: the whys, wheres, and hows of the whole thing. Why do people do it? Where do they find others who want the same things they do? How do they take society’s sideways glares that let them know everyone knows what they’re doing and that most think it’s disgusting?
What immoral behavior is has been adjusted since the days of old when women wore nightgowns that covered them from their necks to their feet, and men were covered too. Small slits were made in the front for sexual activity, an activity that was not for pleasure but for procreation and procreation alone.
Masturbation, if one was caught doing such a horrible thing, was more than merely frowned upon. One was punished for it, and harshly, at that. Nowadays, when one is punished, per their requests, mind you, they’re deemed immoral. It’s a common belief that if one practices BDSM or any variety of that, then the person must’ve had a bad upbringing or something terrible happened to them. Most people think something sexually abusive occurred.
I have to admit that I have favored that mindset. Recently, for reasons I cannot explain, I’ve had other thoughts about the people who practice the lifestyle. I just can’t imagine why anyone would want to dole out punishment or receive it as an adult. But deep in the recesses of my heart, I long to understand. The core belief resides in me that not all who seek out this type of attention have been broken in one way or another.
Being an erotic author is my dream, my passion. I simply love to go away in my head to worlds where anything is possible. Worlds where an ordinary woman can meet up with an abnormally handsome, viral, and, of course, heavily muscled man. He would be filthy rich and just plain filthy in the bedroom, or any room, really.
The world of erotic romance is where I dwell so often in my mind. Damsels in distress are no longer acceptable heroines. No, today’s heroines are smart, sharp as tacks in the wit department, strong in all ways, and take-no-shit kind of broads. The majority of these fictional women aren’t looking for love; they seem to stumble upon it. And with that little stumble, they find themselves in the arms of a man.
Not any man will do in today’s erotic romances. He must be alpha, clean to his core. In many of these novels, for some reason, our hero loves to hit women. And they love to be hit by him. And that is where my writer’s brain has found a dilemma.
I can see falling for a big, strong, handsome man. Who can’t?
But falling for one who wants to tie you up and beat your ass while you cook his dinner and iron his clothes, well, I can’t see it at all. BDSM makes no sense to me, and I’m striving to make sense of it. For my career!
I was a writer before I was anything else. I told stories before I could read. I looked at scenes and made up why things were going as they were. Making up stories has always been like second nature to me.
Being only one year away from graduating with a Master’s Degree in Creative Arts at Bangor University in North Wales, United Kingdom, I’m dangerously close to the part of life where I will need to make my own living in this world. Soon to be cut off from my father’s dime, I have to focus, and that means I must have some belief in what I’m writing about, or I will never see my dreams come true.
My dreams aren’t huge. I want to see my name on the cover of books. Oh! And best sellers’ lists as well, of course. I don’t want to be a mediocre writer. I want to be one of those authors who goes the distance to get to the meat of the story, somewhat like a reporter, but I want to get creative with my truths. I want to make my characters and the world they live in seem realistic while having fantasy-like lives.
And there is little to no reality in normal women finding men with voracious sexual appetites and a penchant for beating them. So, here I am, searching the Internet, hoping no one ever looks at my browser’s history and thinks I’m a woman of ill repute. I am far from that.
At the ripe old age of twenty-three, I haven’t found Mr. Right. And by that, I mean my cherry is still intact. I’m not a prude, though one might think that. I’m just very into my own head a lot of the time. A writer’s thing, my professors tell me. I’ve been told I’m normal for a writer.
Socially, I am a bit inept. Sure, I talk with ease to others, part of my reporter’s instinct, I suppose. But I share little about myself, preferring to steer people in directions that allow me to learn more about them rather than talking about myself.
With a click of my mouse, an awkward picture fills my computer screen. A woman deep-throating an enormous penis!
Hurrying to get the picture off my screen, I notice the small writing at the bottom of the page. It’s about some auction that’s about to come up. Only after seeing that do I notice that the link I clicked on that took me to this sexual place belongs to a BDSM club in Portland, Oregon, in the States.
Several clicks later, I found out this place is a haven for those types of people, and there are many clubs in that city. It’s the number one city in America to find things of this nature. And it seems like the perfect place to begin my search for people who might be helpful enough to be truthful with me and offer me more insight into the dark world that’s shrouded in mystery.
Another click sends me to a picture of a naughty young woman wearing leather clothing and holding her hand to her mouth as she looks surprised. I suppose she never saw the man coming who was behind her. Hard to believe, as he has a whip in his hand, and it’s aimed at her round and firm ass. Somehow, he’s surprised her with what he’s about to do.
No fear is in her eyes. No tears from pain. Only a surprised look covers her pretty face. The man wears a firm expression on his ruggedly handsome facade. I can hear him now, in my mind, “Gertie, you have this coming to you. You forgot the salt in my soup again.”
I giggled to myself, as that was an actual line in one of the novels I read recently. Even then, I thought it was silly and dimwitted. If a man told me I was about to get whipped with an actual whip because of something so small and easily fixed with the jiggle of a salt shaker, I’d most likely laugh and walk away. He would obviously be an idiot and not worth my attention or time.
My mind is too strong, and so is my will, to ever be involved in any of that stuff. But it’s such a fantasy for many women that it bears investigating. My first novel in the erotic realm should have more than a grain of truth to it. I want some real grit mixed in with the fairy tale of a story I will create. None of that phony crap!
I wonder if I can find a real Dom or Master to ask questions to. I wonder if any of them would even want to take time away from whipping asses to talk to a lowly, vanilla virgin about things she knows little to nothing about.
Doubt clouds my vision as I sit back and gaze at the next thing that’s popped up on my screen. A couple of women, clad in nothing but black panties, stand with their backs to a whip-wielding man who wears a black mask and looks like he’s about to bring down the rain on them both.
“Run, you morons,” I say out loud as I notice an open door to their right.
Is it humanly possible to stand still and take the pain of a whip when you’re steps away from escape?
Is it possible that, in some people, the need to feel pain is overwhelming, like a drug addict who hates the after-effects of a certain drug but can’t stop taking it?
The sharp eyes of the women as they look over their shoulders while holding hands, waiting for the whip to meet one of their bodies, haunt me. How can they be so bright-eyed with pain on the way?
If I see a hot burner on the stove, I don’t touch it. If I saw a man running wildly down the street with his belt in his hand, striking out at people, I’d hide. So why do some seek this out?
And what chance do I have of finding even one of the people who practice BDSM who would be willing to help me understand them? And why would they want to?
I’m offering no compensation for their time. I’m offering nothing. I merely want to satisfy my own curiosity, nothing more than that. I want to use what I’m given to make money, as a matter of fact.
No, it’s doubtful that I will be able to find anyone in the BDSM scene to answer my questions. Perhaps I should end this silliness. Maybe I should put this idea to rest and focus on romantic comedy instead. That would be so much easier, wouldn’t it?
Pierce
Her ass sways as she leaves the room. Strands of leather cover it, and red marks cover the places the straps don’t. After an hour of cuddling my sub for the evening, Tasha feels safe enough to leave my company in the private room I rented at The Dungeon of Decorum. She wanted no sex, only punishment. And I gave her what she asked for, like any good Dom would.
Relaxing on the small bed in the room made for torturing the flesh of submissives, I can’t help but recall the first time I came here. It was a mere three years ago, yet it feels like a century.
Bogged down in business, I was burning out fast. Being the new CEO of Waterson Mutual, a business finance company in Portland, Oregon, I was trying to prove my worth to the board, busting my ass far more than I needed to. And it was catching up to me.
Grant Jamison became my friend and eventual hero. Older than me by five years, he took me under his wing and taught me that work is great, but one should always leave time for play.
Grant’s idea of play was very different from what my idea was. I thought he was suggesting playing racquetball with him and the friends he talked about. What he brought me into was far more serious than a ballgame.
In a matter of one month, I was inducted into the brotherhood of the Dominants at a local BDSM club, aptly named The Dungeon of Decorum, a place I now visit often.
Being a Dom comes naturally to me as if I was born to lead, teach, and rule women. At thirty- five, I’ve been told I should be settling down and finding a woman to marry. I’ve been told I can keep my dark hobby a secret and lead a normal life in every other way, but that sounds boring to me.
Being a part of the club I belong to means I can’t divulge any information about myself or any other members. We’re an eclectic group of men who happen to all be wealthy. With that in common, we all have to hide our secret lives. After all, who would want a mayor, a banker, or a statesman who’s into such dark things?
I was astonished by the faces I saw upon visiting the club for the first time. Men from all over the U.S. come to the club. Auctions are especially busy, as not only men come from everywhere, but so do the women who are auctioned off.
Personally, I’ve never bought a woman. I’ve never had an ongoing thing with any of the subs. I prefer one-time scenes. I follow up with the women I’ve played with for about a week’s time, then it’s on to other things. Things like other women with other needs, fetishes, and desires.
Studying techniques extensively has earned me the reputation for being one of the best Doms if one is looking for an excellent experience in bondage. My kinks are bondage, suspension, cupping, impact play, and power exchange, all of which I am particularly good at.
More than once, I’ve been called driven— in business, in bed, and in my personal kinks. If it interests me, I dive into it head first and don’t come up until I’m saturated in knowledge.
I’ve had three serious relationships in my life. Two of them ended because of my incessant drive. Janet, in college, said I was too into my studies and not enough into her. So, she dumped me.
Leah, my second girl, lived with me when I first started working in the finance world. I had to devote most of my time to work. I wanted to move up quickly. After a year, she called it quits too, another woman who told me I didn’t spend enough time with her.
Tracy was a gold digger who lured me into what she thought might be a trap. It was the first year I broke the billion-dollar mark on my yearly income. Tracy, the daughter of a grocery store janitor, wanted more out of life. I asked her to move into my spanking new mansion with me. I showered her with gifts and tried my best to make time for her.
Tracy was one beautiful woman. Long blonde hair with golden streaks hung to her tiny waist. Bright blue eyes spoke to my heart, telling me I’d found an angel. But she turned out to be a demon instead.
Not wanting to get into having a family at that time, I was an avid condom user. When she came to me with a pregnancy test stick that had a couple of lines in it, she told me she was pregnant. With my child!
I’m no idiot; I know condoms aren’t one hundred percent effective, but she had also told me she was taking a birth control shot. Anyone can imagine how shocked and disbelieving I felt.
Tracy was furious when I took her to a doctor and stayed with her as she took the pregnancy test at the physician’s office. It came back negative, and I knew then and there that the woman was trying to force me into marriage. I had no choice; I dumped her.
And after her, I’ve had no desire to deal with women for an extended period of time again. I’m not broken. I’m just too busy to want to deal with all that comes with a relationship.
At the club, I can find women who want whatever I do at the time, anything from letting out aggression to cuddling and fulfilling that need. And not one of the women I’ve been with since joining the club has asked anything more from me than I am willing to give. Relief is what it is.
No games are played. In our world, we communicate far more than in the normal world, the world with innuendos, cat-and-mouse shenanigans, and downright lies to get into relationships that are racked with turmoil.
Women have been taught things by society that go against nature. I never realized that until I found the BDSM world. Things like fighting hard to be above men, a thing that’s insane, have been shoved into their minds.
Women and men are different. We were put here to serve different purposes. There isn’t one of us who is better than the other. And one cannot exist without the other. Society has interfered with the natural order of things. And I, for one, am tired of dealing with women who fight nature.
A sense of calmness took me over soon after beginning this lifestyle. There’s no arguing, no manipulations, no flirting to get into a woman’s panties now. That shit is history. In the club, I can go up to any woman I’d like to, as long as she doesn’t belong to a man who prefers her to be with only him, and I can be frank with her. I can tell her what I’d like to do with and to her, and she’s free to accept it or not.
If she’s into it, then we discuss every last detail about what we want to exchange with one another and plan out our scene. The planning is like foreplay. One gets hot and horny while discussing the details. Keeping our hands to ourselves can be hard as we describe what we want. But I prefer to hold back any physical connection until we get into our scene. It builds anticipation and makes for a better session.
A rap on the darkly stained oak door to the private room takes me out of my thoughts. “Come in.”
Grant pushes the door open. He’s got his arm around a tall, lithe brunette with tons of makeup on. “Hey, Pierce, this one here wants someone to watch us. You game?”
I slide off the bed and pull on my black lounge pants. “Sure. Am I a loud member of the audience or a quiet creeper?”
“Loud,” she tells me as I make my way to them. She strokes my cheek as she peers into my eyes. “My, you are a looker. And that body. Mmmm.”
Taking her hand away from my face, as I don’t allow touch until we’re in the act, I let her know, “If you like what you see, we can talk sometime soon about what you need, baby.”
“I need you,” she whispers, making my groin thump.
“We’ll see how well you take what my friend dishes out before you and I talk about what it is you need.” I step to one side and allow Grant to lead the party to wherever he has planned.
Grant winks at me. “Perhaps you could show me your flogging technique on her if she’s all right with that. I’ve heard you’ve developed it, so it’s better than most Doms’.”
The way the woman, wearing only a thin, white silk robe, looks over her shoulder at me tells me she’d like that.
“Sure, I can show you.”
“I cannot wait,” she purrs.
A growl fills my throat as I think about how she’s about to feel. “Baby, we’re about to take you to the Amber Zone.”
Jade
The night is long. I toss and turn most of it. Dreams of whips and chains fill the hours, along with men in dark shadows who call out for me to stop running.
Getting out of bed, I rub the sleep from my eyes and make my way to the shower. My flat is small, and I’m tired of looking at the same walls each day. Summer is nearly here, and I want to go on holiday somewhere, get out of my country for a couple of months, and see some other place.
The water’s hot, making steam fill the tiny water closet. Steeping into the standup shower, my body jerks as the heated water hits it. “Ow!” I turn down the heat and make the water’s temperature more compatible with my skin.
Memories of the dreams which plagued me bounce around in my head. In them I was different. I was unafraid, yet not allowing myself to be drawn in by the husky, deep voices of the men.
The plum shampoo smells great and helps to wake me up. After a shot of something with caffeine in it, I should be good to go. It’s the weekend, and I have nothing to do but study for my finals. One more week of school, then I’ll be free.
I’m not one of those creatures who freaks out over finals. I know my stuff, as I pay attention in class and have an honest interest in the subject matter. That always helps.
Turning off the water, I step out and towel off. Throwing on a fluffy pink robe, I wrap the towel around my hair in a turban-like fashion and make my way back into my bedroom. A set of sweats will do for my day of studying and chilling out.
After getting dressed, I stroll out to the kitchen to make some coffee and pop a bagel into the toaster. Taking the cream cheese out of the fridge, I notice my laptop sitting on the kitchen counter where I left it last night.
Before I went to bed, I told myself that I’d forget about trying to find anyone to answer my BDSM questions. The realization that no one would waste his time with me settled into my head.
The dreams have sparked my insatiable curiosity once again, and I find myself drawn to the silver laptop. I open it and turn it on. It buzzes and whirrs as it comes to life.
My attention is taken away from the device as the toaster pops up my bagel, and I set about pouring a cup of coffee and getting my little breakfast ready to eat. Sitting at the table, I take my first bite and look at my laptop again.
“Oh, what the hell.” I get up and grab it, place it on the tabletop, and type it into the search engine I like to use when doing research.
Tapping in a simple ‘BDSM society,’ I sit back and let the engine find something for me to read while I eat half of my bagel and sip the stout black coffee. A directory of sites comes up on the screen, and I tap the first one. A list appears at the top of the page. The title explains they’re things used to play with. The first item is a spreader bar. The picture looks innocuous enough. But the description says the bar can be made of metal or wood, and it’s used to keep the submissive spread open. It can be utilized on either the wrists or the ankles, and it can even be hung from the ceiling.
“Oh, my!”
Why on Earth would anyone willingly be held in that position?
Oh, well. On to the next thing: medical restraints. A set of four small leather belts is used to hold a person to the bed. I have to ask myself: if it’s all so great, why does one have to be bound to the bed?
Next, I see something called a monoglove. The poor girl has her arms behind her back and is wrapped in a leather glove-like thing. She’s helpless to move her arms. Again, I must ask myself, why?
Not only does it look constricting and uncomfortable, it seems silly to me. Does the Dom need to keep his sub’s hands away from him or something?
Moving on, I find a muzzle gag, a penis gag, and a ring gag; they all look more than a bit uncomfortable. I’m left wondering if I would actually choke if the penis gag was put into my mouth and strapped there. I definitely think I would!
A medieval-looking device is next. It’s used to hold a person’s nose, pulling it backward so their head is pulled back and their mouth opens. It’s called a nose hook, and I really have no idea why it would be considered a sexual device. It looks like a thing one would use to get a child to accept medicine when they fight about taking it.
“Oh! I get it now!” A blush heats my cheeks as I think about being forced to open my mouth and having a man’s cock placed into it.
If I were a man, though, I still wouldn’t trust the object to stop my submissive from clamping down on my dick. And if she has to be forced to accept it, then why’s she there in the first place?
I just keep finding more questions to ask!
Plastic wrap is next on the list, and I see that it’s used to wrap up the sub like a mummy. How inexpensive that is, and how odd that anyone thought of that. I can hear the odd couple now: “Honey, can you get the plastic wrap from the kitchen? I think I’ll wrap it around you tonight so I can have my way with you.”
And the daft woman would run off to fetch the item without a thought in her empty head. No, I just don’t get it at all!
Something called a posture collar is next on this insane list. It’s just like the white collars one wears when they have a neck injury. Perhaps it’s used to aid in the protection of the neck when being beaten like an animal. The woman who has it on looks equally as uncomfortable as any person I’ve seen wearing one because they had to.
So, I am left with more questions than I previously had, and my curiosity is banging on my brain to get the answers it requires. But I close the laptop and try to focus on what I really need to be doing: studying for my finals.
The chair I’m sitting in is made of wood and not comfortable in the least, with its rigid back. Studying goes out the window as I close my eyes and imagine being strapped to the chair with leather medical restraints. A wide posture collar wrapped around my neck makes me sit up straight. A spreader bar holds my legs open, and a monoglove pins my arms behind my back. Even the fantasy is constricting and awkward. I open my eyes and laugh as I think about letting anyone do such things to me.
And those things aren’t anywhere nearly as horrible as the whips and chains. My mind is right back where it’s been for the past several months: bondage, brutality, and why anyone would allow that to happen to them. What type of beasts want to do that to someone?
In the romance novels, women easily fall in love with their tormentors. Why?
If a man did even half of the things to me that I’ve read about, I think I’d kill him in his sleep and not have an ounce of guilt over it. To fall in love with such a beastly person is a thing I cannot imagine.
With the first sting of the whip, I’d vow to kill the motherfucker. I’m sure I would. A Dom would have to use a muzzle or gag on me, as I’d threaten his very existence as he tortured me. And when he set me free, which he’d have to do eventually, well, he’d be the one running scared. Of that, I am certain.
Perhaps I’d be better suited as the dominator. But then again, I could never bring myself to hit a person. Hurting someone’s feelings is a thing I hate. Actually, hurting someone physically isn’t a thing I could do or condone.
So, how am I supposed to talk to a person who actively does these things without judging them?
If I ask a question such as, “How does it make you feel to hit a woman?” and get a truthful answer, then what will I do?
If a man were to tell me that he gets joy out of hitting a woman, then I’d detest him. A man who bound a woman then hit her and took her sexually, well, he’d be a person I couldn’t stand.
So what the hell am I doing? Why am I thinking about trying to talk to someone who I think is evil? What the hell is wrong with me? And what would my family think of me for even contemplating this?
Sitting back, I try to rationalize my thoughts. Like a reporter, I don’t have to agree with anything when I’m trying to get information. I can ask questions, get my answers, and move on from the monster.
It’s not as if I’m going to ask some Dom to take me on and show me what happens in their dark world. I’d never do that!
My hand moves to the laptop and pulls it open. It’s like my will has taken over as I type ‘BDSM Clubs’ into the search engine. My fingers hesitate as I see the first link to a club with an actual website. It’s called “The Dungeon of Decorum”, and I click it.
Looking over the page that opens, I find a message board and type in Is there anyone in this club who’d like to help me learn more about the real world of BDSM?
Now, to see if anyone wants to respond…
Pierce
Birds chirp, waking me from a deep sleep. Blinking my eyes to shield them from the bright sunlight that’s pouring through my pale green, sheer-curtained window, I stretch and yawn with the onset of the weekend. With no plans made, I think I’ll make myself a healthy breakfast of oatmeal and wheat toast, then head to the gym. Maybe I’ll just let the day take me wherever it wants to.
Moving to the bathroom, I turn on the shower, letting the steamy water heat the cold tiles. Multiple jets shoot the water out, hitting almost the entire surface of the tiled walls. Padding over to the sink, I brush my teeth, floss, then rinse with mouthwash.
Into the shower I go, pouring an expensive shampoo I found online last week into my palm. It smells like leather and sandalwood, making me feel exceptionally masculine. In no time at all, I’m bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and dry off, then dress in casual clothing. Jeans, a T-shirt, and running shoes will suffice.
Heading downstairs to the kitchen, I find the fridge well-stocked. Edith, my house manager, has made sure I’m ready to cook for myself through the weekend like I always do. I give the staff every weekend off. I prefer to be alone in my home when I’m off. They come in after I leave for work each weekday and are gone before I come home.
During the week, I take my meals in town. Most of the time, I get home around eight and usually hit the hay pretty early. I’m a faithful subscriber to the idea that early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. So far, it’s worked wonders for me!
After making my breakfast, I take it to the table and open up my laptop to see what’s going on around Portland this weekend. As always, I check the club’s website first to see if any of the subs have posted anything I might be interested in.
The name Jade Thomas is the first thing I see as I scan the message board. I’ve never seen that name on here before. And she’s asked a question.
Is there anyone in this club who’d like to help me learn more about the real world of BDSM?’
“Jade Thomas,” I say out loud. “And what does this young lady want to know, I wonder?”
Without hesitation, I ask my own question: What do you want to know more about our world?
